


Dean Winchester vs The Realms

by pandashurley



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandashurley/pseuds/pandashurley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has been watching the Winchesters their whole lives. When Dean is dragged down to hell, someone has to rescue him. Castiel is assigned his charge, but it will come at a price that he is hesitant to place on Dean. Intentions are all well and good, but it's the follow through that counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester vs The Realms

**Author's Note:**

> So super deep in torture town here guys. If that's a trigger for you, sorry. I was bored and wanted to write something fantastic, this came out. Currently working on the second chapter which should be done sooner rather than later. Oh and the AU I'm working with is along the same lines as the original universe, but if I did the apocalypse too I would probably die writing it.
> 
> Thanks!

Smell is usually what ties the closest memories. Smell is more powerful than taste, touch and sight combined. The smell of a girl's perfume on the first date is much more memorable than the dress she was wearing. Most of the time, the link is like that. Good smells correlate with the best memories. The first pitch of a baseball game, or that first storm in the heat of summer. Strong, deep smells tied to equally strong memories. What most people don't realize is when you smell the horror of the world, it usually gets burned into your brain the same way. The smell of burning hair, sizzling flesh, of decomposition could also be stuck in the mind with the visions of vacant stares, blackened and cracked skin, or bloated bellies. Dean Winchester knew that he would never forget this smell, whether he ever made it out or not. He would never forget.

It smelled like fear, sweat, blood and death. Tangy and metallic, heated over a roaring fire and set to serve whenever. Everything in Hell smelled this way. Sulfuric, metallic, sweaty heat. It tasted that way too, when his mouth wasn't filled with blood. Thankfully that had stopped some weeks ago. Previously, Dean had been subjugated to horrendous tortures. The feeling of a million knives cutting into his skin, hooks hanging him, brands burning into him until there was nothing. In those brief moments of lost consciousness, the smell was gone and replaced by better memories. The rich smell of sun warmed leather, or clean and freshly showered skin would drift through his subconscious before the smell started to shift. Waking from torture-induced unconsciousness was nothing like waking from sleep. It was sudden, painful and full of fear just to be awake again.

He imagined most other damned souls felt this way. Sick of the smell, tired of the torture and prayed to be let go. Dean knew he wasn't going anywhere, he made a deal and the Devil took him like Dean knew he would. After the first decade, Dean's prayers had melted from daily into weekly. After weekly, and another half decade, they became monthly. Now Dean only prayed for the torture to stop. For Alastair's hands to stop touching him, groping him, feeding off his cries and pleading. He knew better than to think it would ever stop, and it was as if Alastair could hear his innermost thoughts. It was always the day after his few conscious hours without Alastair carving into his meat suit, that the demon would go at him with everything he had. Like when Dean was a fresh new canvas for the demon. Dean heaved out a sigh. He had finally decided to stop praying after a particularly hard day which had involved some bone saws, a brand and some all too threatening promises that Dean still hears the echoes of. Alastair been offering since he had first arrived, an end to the torture. Dean didn't like the deal. There was no way he could torture (possibly) innocent people just because they were in Hell. If he could only torture the ones who 'deserved it', it would be an easier deal to consider. Alastair said that anyone who landed on his table would be there for him to torture, no matter what. Dean knew it only took the little things to get into Hell, it wasn't all mortal sin. Maybe you lied to a telemarketer or said you didn't have change for a homeless person when you did. Maybe you jay walked because your car was right across the street in the middle of two crosswalks. Maybe you snuck downstairs and ate that last brownie before anyone else could. It didn't matter. Heaven and Hell weren't as picky as the preachers made it out to be. Ultimate absolution? Most people don't know that you have to ask for that.

But it seemed that every day Dean continued to refuse, Alastair would amp up the torture. Today was particularly nasty, and Alastair was doing everything to keep Dean conscious through the whole ordeal. He has started by flaying most of the skin off Dean's back with slow cuts and careful slices. It was weird to not be able to feel so many nerve endings exposed to the hot open air. He shivered despite it all and he could hear Alastair rumble out a deep laugh.

"I never get tired of human musculature. It's so complex..." Alastair had a grin stretching from ear to ear, his teeth slotting together in a purely maniacal grin. It made for a hell of a terrifying smile. "You know that shiver, just now? I saw so many of these little fibers shudder and contract and expand. The human body is really quite stunning..." He trailed off slightly and Dean could feel the steady heat and pressure of a finger poking each individual vertebra. "I have dedicated my existence to the study of every part of the human anatomy, and it is always fun to see it just simply spread out for me. Just like this..." He purred. Alastair had already cut out his tongue today, which had been done when Dean had teased him one too many times. Dean swallowed a mouthful of blood, feeling what wouldn't go down bubble from his lips.

He was naked, which Alastair seemed to prefer. It wasn't so much as sexual as it was a closer study of human anatomy and it's reactions. Or so Alastair claimed. Dean watched the blood drip from his mouth and fall onto a rusty, dark stain on the floor beneath his suspended body. There was so much blood on the floor, and Dean often found himself wondering if it was all his. Maybe each person in Hell got their own little crummy torture room, but Dean couldn't fathom a real reason why they would do that. Sanitation wasn't exactly on the up and up. He never seemed to die of infection though, which wasn't really much of a surprise. It was always either blood loss or something immediate. He wondered if some people were suffering such long and drawn out deaths instead of being tortured to death like this. Dean jumped as he felt a rich, wet heat touch some of his newly exposed muscle fibers. A loud groan, followed by a sultry growl erupted from behind him.

"Fuck, Dean..." The demon cursed. "Your blood tastes so sweet. It still tastes righteous... and indignant." Another lick of that forked demon tongue, punctuated by a ludicrous giggle and Dean felt like he was going to be sick. This was perverse, and Dean started to thrash in protest. Alastair had always pushed that boundary, occasionally stroking Dean but rarely in the common erogenous zones. Branding the nerves of his nipples, after he watched the sadistic bastard slowly skin his chest. Carving symbols and sigils into his vertebra and other bones. It was a form of sicker punishment, but it had only come about after Dean had dared to laugh once.

It had been early on, and it was beginning to feel like Alastair and his newest little minion were running out of things to do. It was almost like they had been going out of a book and they had finally run out of pages. Dean always thought about the sick tortures that humans had for each other and realized Hell was similar, but so much worse. Dean had stopped screaming a few sessions ago, instead filling the air with taunts of "Harder..." or "Oh, was that a mosquito bite?" or his new personal favorite, a deep long yawn. Dean relished in the looks of pure frustration and hatred on their faces while he goaded them on.

Then one day, Alastair showed up alone. He was dressed differently, not his normal flashy self. He looked casual and disappointed. Dean was surprised to see him so contemplative. No evil gleam in his eyes, but it didn't look like it was a barrel of laughs in those unending white expanses.

"Did Hell finally start freezing over?" Dean managed to rasp out with a laugh. Today he had been strapped to a medical table that could be pushed to standing, reminding Dean of an execution table. The arms and legs could be spread and he knew the panels supporting him could be removed, permitting total body access.

"No, Dean. You happened." Alastair's voice dripped out of him like Southern Comfort. His voice was light, almost hurt or broken but Dean wasn't fooled for a second as the demon began to approach him. "You came down here already broken, and so you've been particularly hard to completely destroy...." He hissed. Dean had watched him cross the room in slow motion until they were practically nose to nose. "None of the normal avenues are working. I even had to call a meeting of the best I had trained. Most of them had souls that would crack under the slightest prod. They haven't had to do a quarter of the things I'm putting you through!" He was pacing now. The demeanor he entered with was now dissolving bit by bit into frustration and anger. "But you." He stopped and looked Dean right in the eye. "You. Fucked. Everything." Dean watched the hellfire ignite deep inside those pale marble orbs. "So I'm..." Alastair crossed behind him and started fiddling with various things on the table. Including the height. "Going. To Fuck." He crossed back around, a gleaming bowie knife clutched in his hand. He poked Dean in the chest with the point. "You."

It seemed like a whole new eternity at this point. That's when Dean first realized that Alastair was never going to ever pay attention to the human way of touching or torture. Alastair had made his own openings, wet, deep and red and claimed them all as his own. Dean shook his head as he crashed back into reality. He started to thrash as he felt the knife started to poke at the complex series of muscles in his lower back. He heard more blood from the back of him start dripping in time with the bloody pink drool slipping from his mouth.

"Don't get testy with me, Winchester. You know the deal. You start up and I stop." A curious sensation started to spread down Dean's left arm. He could hear the sounds of a blade cutting through what sounded like rope. "Cutting muscle fibers one at a time is actually painstaking. It takes so much time..." Dean felt the muscles in his arm start to weaken dramatically. Soon enough, that arm would just be decaying meat. "I am going to leave the tendons alone for now, something needs to keep you together. Your skin won't..." He laughed as it seemed to echo through Hell. It cut through the screams and the pleading right into Dean's chest. Dean closed his eyes and started thinking of Sam, women, puppies, anything to stop him sensing the slow death of his arm.

"Now now, Mr. Winchester. Can't have you ignoring me like that. Can't have you trying to block this out...." Dean felt his eyes get forced open to stare into blank white orbs and the horrible demon in front of him. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his eyelids were pulled forward and slowly cut them away. "There we are. Now, where was I?" The demon asked himself as he crossed back behind. Dean, now unable to stop what was happening in any fashion, hoped that unconsciousness would come.  
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Unconsciousness was much quicker this time, mostly due to blood loss and Dean knew that. Thankfully he hadn't regained consciousness on the table again. The cell around him was dark and quiet, save for the ungodly screams in the distance. Dean pushed himself to sit up on the dirty floor. He was still hoping that Sam was going to find a way to rescue him or that eternity was going to start passing by a little faster. It had felt like decades since he had been gone. Maybe Sammy had given up and started a family. Maybe Bobby wasn't answering the phones anymore. Maybe the apocalypse had finally come and ruined the world. Dean had know way of knowing. All he knew now was this place. Alastair hadn't stopped offering his little deal. Dean still hadn't accepted but he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep saying no.

Would it be that bad? Dean kept wondering. To torture people? He could just pretend they were all bad and let it go from there. He wasn't going anywhere, he wasn't going to be granted absolution, he was just going to spend day in and day out being flayed alive and having his insides toyed with by a sick, overly fascinated demon-child. The way time passed was arbitrary, but Dean didn't really know how it worked. Ever so often, Alastair would enter his little cell with happiness just oozing out of him. That usually meant a year had gone by. Alastair was a demon with a penchant for the dramatic, with his little lisp and effeminate air. Anniversaries usually meant something particularly special. Dean shuddered as the scene from so long ago began to unfold in his mind, of Alastair hissing out that particular word.

By this point, Dean had only kept thrashing and screaming because he didn't want Alastair to ever get creative again. Dean couldn't help but admit that he was getting kind of bored. The knives, the tearing, it all felt so familiar that it was like a job. Wake up, get eviscerated, get drawn and quartered, die, only to wake up in a cell to do it all over again. Last year had been twenty-eight or twenty-nine and Dean was sure that this coming anniversary was only leading up to the inevitable. Maybe Alastair would pull out all the stops, maybe there was a way to find a car battery or something like it... Dean snapped his head up.

"Where did that come from?" Dean murmured to himself. His brain suddenly kicked into over drive. It felt like an adrenaline shot straight to the brain. His heart started to race and he felt tears begin to prick the backs of his eyes. It feet like pure unadulterated panic. Was this his plan all along? Dean shook his head and tried to take a few deep breaths. His heart was still racing and he was trying to consider this.

Alastair has the cunning and the time to plan, to write those things he would whisper to him while cutting symbols into his skin and licking up the blood. Most times, he would tell Dean what he tasted like. Sometimes, he would run his fingers through freshly drawn blood and paint Dean's lips with it... when Dean still had lips. One of the anniversaries, Dean had actually found himself impressed with what Alastair had planned. Dean had woken up, strapped in the medical table with a needle in each arm. His left arm was attached to a large jar that seemed to slowly be collecting his blood while his right arm was being fed a clear liquid and a small amount of blood. His whole body ached and when he opened his eyes, he promptly vomited.

"Oh Dean!" Alastair spun around, he was dressed in linen clothing much like a stereotypical artist. The wall in front of him had been painted white, and it hurt Dean's eyes to look at it. Everything was always a dark, hazy red here causing the white to burn at him and his stomach heaved again. "Hmmm, I suppose I have that Long Island drip up a little high... Feelin' a bit drunk, Deano?" Dean hadn't been drunk in an eternity. He had forgotten what it felt like and so did his body.

"Wassis?" Dean slurred, looking around him. "Wallzwhite." He stated, gesturing his head toward the wall. Alastair ripped the drips unceremoniously from his right arm, leaving a rivulet of blood to start staining the floor as it dripped.

"Not very gentlemanly of me to get my date sloppy drunk! She might not put out after..." He cackled and walked over to a table holding a jar filled with a dark liquid. "I'm going to seduce her with a painting..." He opened the jar and stuck two fingers in. He slowly slid them into his mouth, moaning obscenely as the blood touched his tongue. "In ALL of her sweet, rich blood. Dean, I am going to drain you of every drop of blood you have, and paint a picture with it as you slowly fade away." He said, tickling Dean's nose with the paint brush. "I know you're pretty plastered, but do try to stay awake, it will be a masterpiece." Alastair all but whispered, dipping the brush into Dean's blood with a flourish, finally touching paint to canvas. By the time Dean passed out, the demon had almost finished painting Dean's eyes, open wide with panic.

Dean started as he heard the tell tale approaching footsteps, breaking him out of his memory. Alastair stood in front of the bars of Dean's cage. He had a smart and well tailored pinstripe suit on today, which could only mean another anniversary. This time felt so different though, more important. Something unsaid hung in the air and the demon looked slightly more... compassionate.

"Dean, have you been keeping track of the years you've been here?" Alastair asked him, beckoning him to stand. Dean obeyed and took a few hesitant steps toward the bars, shaking his head. "Thirty, Dean. Today marks thirty years since I first got to lay a blade to that rough, tan hide of yours. You have been, by far, my greatest challenge..." He reached a hand through the bars and caught the side of Dean's face. "And now, I am going to make you my greatest success." Dean surprised himself with his own silence, not offering up a word of protest. Something happened to him. Thirty years and he had finally snapped. Alastair couldn't have looked more pleased. "My little pet..." The demon cooed at Dean. "Say it Dean. I need to hear it..." Alastair's head tipped back, exposing his long slim throat. Dean traced the long tendons with his eyes.

"I want to be your student, Alastair. Teach me." Dean's voice sounded heady and thick, a delicious tango with a moan of pure pleasure ripping free from the demon in front of him. The cage swung open and Dean was at that moment set free from the dungeon. Over the next few weeks, he would be set up in a room somewhere in what he assumed was a giant castle but he would quickly learned his own importance. He was followed and watched everywhere he went.  
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Alastair was a good teacher, Dean decided. Now that Alastair trusted him, he was grooming Dean to be something even more terrible than ever before. Dean found himself with a lot more freedom as far as his own entity was concerned. He often thought it would be important to know the precise way to cut into a major artery and be able to flex the knife to control blood flow, especially when he got back up topside. It would be the perfect way to torture demons instead of threatening them with exorcism.

The beings that had passed on his table were mostly ordinary like he expected. Lots of pleading, screaming and crying filled his ears while they kept begging him to stop. There were a few who were courageous enough to laugh, but then they never did again. In his infant stages of torture, Alastair had to push hum to do simple things. As the weeks and years passed, Dean found himself marveling at the wealth of damage a simple blade could do to human flesh. He had always known that it could kill, but stabbing someone was completely different from picking them apart, sinew by sinew. He found himself enjoying perks, if there even was such a thing in Hell. All he knew was he wasn't in a dirty stinking cell anymore. He had something akin to a bathroom, a bed and a small library. Albeit was filled with books on torture, anatomy and the inner workings of the mind, but Dean found himself enthralled at the tiny intricacies of the vessel that used to house his soul. The various uses for the fluids in the body alone held his attention for weeks.

He had never been one for studying in school, always passing on the bare minimum. Trying to please Alastair had made things different. On the one hand, he wanted to make the demon proud. Most likely as a way to grow some sort of bond that his absentee father had left vacant. On the other hand, if Alastair wasn't pleased with Dean's progress, he found himself strapped back on the rack again. Not for the painful, drawn out torture he was used to. It was something rather quick, hard and messy, like a quicky behind a dive bar. Alastair's eyes would glitter in pain and what looked like shame when this had to happen. Dean never screamed and Alastair never relented. So Dean quickly learned to study and appease his new father, because the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the last apparent being that loved him.

Sometimes, after a long day, Dean would return to his quarters bitter and angry. He hadn't uttered a single prayer since he started torturing people and he sure as shit wasn't going to start up again. Sammy, obviously, had given up on trying to find him or rescue him or whatever and so Dean was trying to tolerate the little that he had left. The little bitch that had been on his table today was someone he had seen often enough. She couldn't have been older than twenty-two, but her tongue was like acid to Dean. He had taken to cutting it out as often as possible, without Alastair's direction. He didn't like the things she shouted at him while he peeled away her skin, or shoved assorted needles deep into her musculature. The easy ones to get over were shouts of 'Monster!' and 'Alastair's little pet bitch boy.' She had only started with those. Today had been particularly bad, she had been in a rather vindictive mood and Alastair had wanted to hear what she had to say to his newest little prodigy.

"Little bitch boy!" She shouted and spit blood at his feet. "You'll never be saved now... Fucking pathetic little blood slut!" She twisted against her restraints, letting the delicate pattern of slices in her skin to drip red again as she tore open the clots.

"Are you going to let her speak to you that way, Dean?" Alastair whispered in his ear. Burning hands touched his shoulders and Dean felt himself draw up to his full height. He eyes were always dark when he tortured, but the young woman held back a gasp as they got even darker and a devilish smirk traced across his lips.

"Listen to me, you damned little cunt." He said softly. It was almost as if a hush had fallen over Hell to listen to him. Dean always felt in control in these hot rooms, reeking of blood and adrenaline. He was close enough to see the sweat drip down from her face and mingle with the blood drying along her body. "I'm not the one on the rack anymore." He inhaled slightly, causing her to shiver. "So I don't know what you mean by saved." His white smile flashed at her as he bent his head down to lap at the fresh blood falling from a slice in her shoulder. When he smiled again, his teeth were covered in blood. "Fear, denial and hope..." Dean licked his lips. "Trust me, honey. Give it time, and all we will be able to taste from you is fear..." Dean whispered at her as he carved a big 'W' over her belly button. "Especially now, because every time I see you again..." He kept tracing the knife deeper and deeper until he felt the abdominal muscles tear apart and open to him. "I will show you what fear really is." He tongued the blood off his fingers that he had collected from the river now running from her belly as the knife slowly began to work through her stomach, causing the acid inside to slowly start filling her body cavity. The scream was worth it, Dean thought. Maybe she had passed out because it was quiet in the room again, and screams echoed again outside the door. Dean had started to turn away when he heard her cough herself back into consciousness.

"What you do here..." She managed to rasp out, coughing up some blood at the effort. "None of this will be forgiven. You soul belongs here now... you're demonized..." Her words were starting to slur and she was having trouble keeping her head up, unconsciousness was quickly coming for her again. She coughed roughly, blood and stomach acid leaking out of her. "Nothing good will ever happen to you again..." She murmured as the last of her consciousness escaped her. Dean was fuming, so much so that even Alastair held back from touching him. Dean reached over to the surgical stand they had and grabbed everything sharp on it. He began hurtling the knives, the saw blades, the needles, anything he could grab into her soft human flesh like a dartboard. He was screaming, frustrated and kept throwing harder and harder until he had nothing left and she was more or less 'dead'. Alastair called in some lesser demons who took her body away and began cleaning while Dean simple seethed in the middle of the room. No more words were exchanged as Dean left the room and stormed back to his quarters.

It was times like these that Dean began to doubt the love and replacement of Alastair. The woman was right, he was a monster. He couldn't feel it anymore, the guilt or the sorrow. It was all just a feeling of getting the pain he had left out of his body. He transferred it via blade into the the nameless faces he brought to a rather bloody and pulpy end. Dean sat on his bed and hung his head in his hands. He wanted to go home, to breathe something that didn't smell like sweat and sulfur. He sighed deeply and his hands came to rest together between his knees.

"This isn't a prayer." He stated to the empty room, closing his eyes. "Someone... please..." He whispered, and that's all he could manage. A real prayer would have put him back on the table. A real prayer would have betrayed Alastair, and he wouldn't like that. Dean let himself fall back on the bed and looked up at the dingy ceiling. His soul belonged here now, he was a part of Hell now as much as Lucifer, Crowley and Alastair. Sometimes when he laid here and couldn't sleep, he would wonder if he should change his name to something more demonic. Most of the ideas that would run through his mind sounded like bad metal band mates: Dire, Dirge, Destro... nothing nearly as frightening as the name he already had. Beings in Hell hated Dean Winchester, and Dean never seemed to complain.  
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His time in Hell now was seamless. Waking hours were spent torturing or studying a new technique to combine with something to make it even more ruthless. Dean was always proud when his father would gasp or laugh. He smiled the biggest when he heard the scratch of note taking as the started in on something completely new. Alastair was pleased that a man damned to Hell could be such a deadly force. Especially a righteous man. He was never shocked at what Dean would dream up. This boy had a lot of free time growing up to contemplate all of the ways he could kill Azazel. Alastair would occasionally chuckle behind Dean while he was at work, thinking of how the former demon had gotten off incredibly easy compared to these stunningly normal transgressions.

Today was somehow different. For the first time in forty years, the air in Hell felt strange. Heavier almost. There was a crackle of electricity and the screams in the distance seemed more like the cries of battle than the cries of pain. This had never happened before, but Dean wasn't scared. He wasn't used to feeling much of anything anymore. Hell was a weird place, so this was probably just another weird thing going on. Dean only started to become suspicious when he walked into one of the little cramped rooms only to find it empty. His heart started to beat just a little bit faster as he heard the cascading trample of running feet. He snapped around as two common demons dressed in what appeared to be armor crashed through the door.

"He's here!" One of them turned to call back down the hall and soon, Dean found himself more or less surrounded. Alastair strode through the throng of demons to come to stand in front of Dean. He was dressed handsomely in a set of close fitting black armor, a cloak flowing out behind him. Demonic runes were etched into the blackened metal, and it seemed to shine as if there were a light behind the symbols.

"I don't know what you did, boy..." Alastair reached up and grabbed Dean's jaw, forcing eye contact. "But you aren't fucking leaving now!" Alastair's voice pitched up as he turned around. "FUCK!" Alastair screamed, his voice echoing down the hallway. Dean felt a complete lack of understanding cross his face. Dean hadn't done anything but come in here for the last 10 years. What could be happening out there to cause his father such anger. "Throw him back in the dungeon! If they think they are going to get him that easily, they are fucking mistaken!" Alastair yelled at the flinching minions around him. They are quickly circled around Dean, and without protest from the man, began to move as a protective cluster.

As they wound their way down to the depths of the castle, the sounds of war and attack were louder in some areas. The small human part of Dean that had been subdued over the years suddenly electrified awake. Someone, or something, had to be coming for him. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. He didn't see anyone else being escorted in such a fashion, in fact everywhere was mostly deserted. Save for the few scampering demons he saw. The usual symphony of screams and sobbing were absent, throwing Dean's memory back to all those forests going quiet during a hunt. Someone was hunting, something was coming. Dean listened to the scream of those dying and kept seeing flashes of light, like lightening, against the coal black sky of pollution. The lightning wasn't from the sky, Dean had seen enough storms to know that much. The clouds were being lit by something on the ground.

They finally passed an open window and Dean took the opportunity to push his way out of the ring of demons. Some of them made motion to stop him, but Dean glared them all away and strode over to peer out. The scene beneath him was simply biblical. Giant wings attached to what looked like orbs of glowing light were in the distance, diving like falcons into the throngs of demons swarming the ground like ants. Some of the glowing orb things were dispersed among the crowd, bright flashes coming from them and then a circle of demons at least three deep would simply fall down. Only to be quickly replaced. Dean had seen a lot of war and destruction and nothing could tear him from this window. It wasn't until he felt several pairs of those hellish hands wrap around him that he started to scream. They were dragging him away from the battlefield, carrying his struggling body now.

Dean hadn't screamed like this is ages. The palace still appeared to be deserted, no sounds were coming back to echo him and Dean was screaming bloody freaking murder. If those glowing things were here for him, he was going to do everything in his power to get them closer. The demons surrounding him were obviously getting sick of his squirming and screaming by the looks on their faces and the first cell they came to became Dean's new tantrum pit. The door was locked and they scampered off to the fray, not even one bothering to stay behind to stand guard. Something told Dean it probably wouldn't matter anyway. Dean laughed and collapsed to sitting on the dirty ground. Forty years it took for someone to hear his prayer. Dean closed his eyes, no harm in it now.

"Are you there God? It's me, Dean. I know I haven't called in a while, but all I really wanted to say was if this is finally you answering, man... You are making one hell of a dream come true right now..." Dean trailed off. He couldn't hear the battle from where he was but suddenly everything went quieter. Electricity crackled in the air, making his hair stand on end. From the distance, Dean heard a slow rumble. It sounded like someone or something was breaking down walls. Suddenly, the bricks around him began to shake and vibrate and a low bass started to thrum through his chest. Soon, it felt like he was vibrating all the way down to the atom. Then his ears began to ring. At first Dean just wanted to brush it off as tinnitus from shooting guns without proper protection. This time though, it wasn't fading but getting louder. The volume quickly became too much and Dean clamped his hands down around his ears and some bricks had falled down around him. Then there was nothing but light. Bricks littered the ground around him as everything faded down to a whisper.

Dean had seen everything by this point. Or so he thought. What was standing before him was anything but human. Looking upon it just hurt his eyes, and he had to bring his hand up to focus through the light. Tall. It was so tall. Taller than Sammy. Lanky and opalescent. If there was anything that Dean would ever in his life describe as an alien, it would be whatever was standing before him. One long hand reached toward him. Huge wings spanned out behind it, quivering and shaking, like it was possibly nervous. The being took a few steps toward Dean, and suddenly his arm felt like it was being branded. The thing wasn't even touching him, but the skin on his shoulder started to raise red and angry in the shape of a hand.

'Dean... Winches...ter... Dean..." was all that echoed in his head as he screwed his eyes shut against the pain and the light. He couldn't hear himself screaming anymore as the incredible heat spread through his whole body. Felt like his nerves were being cauterized inside of him. His feet left the ground, but he didn't realize it. He would have liked to fly if he were conscious, even though he probably would have been completely paralyzed.

The next thing Dean knows, it's dark and it smells wet and earthy. No hot fiery corpse smell, more like soil and grass. It's pitch black and confined and Dean manages to stave his panic as the realization slowly hits him that he is in his own coffin. It could very well be a dream, this wouldn't be the first time Alastair tortured him with hallucinations. If this wasn't a dream, then hopefully Sammy did as he had asked and not buried him the whole six feet under. Trying to dig through that would definatly kill him again, Dean had caught that from an episode of Mythbusters one rainy afternoon in some non-descript motel room. Hopefully he wasn't more than three feet. Dean fumbled for his lighter and began to tear and dig his was out of his own fucking grave.  
\----------------  
If one compared Heaven to Hell, it became obvious which was more pleasurable to spend time in. While Hell was full of rotting corpses, burning flesh and sulfuric odors, Heaven was a kingdom of old looking palaces, warmth and the smell that lingered was a curious mix of buzzing ozone and freshness. Over millennium, it had become tiresome. The last time Castiel had even left was closer to the days of Jesus than it was to the current time line now on Earth. Something like 2,600 years. To admit to being bored was a sin in itself so Castiel had to try to keep himself from thinking it as he watched his brothers and sisters fill important missions while he was left behind. Sure, there was paperwork that Castiel could be doing or some other form of medial clerical work, but his attentions were never captured for that long. He knew that despite his normal sounding name and rank, that he was destined for something special. The problem was, there was nothing special calling out to him. He hadn't been assigned much more than to keep training his garrison. So time passed without incident.

News always seemed to travel quickly around in Heaven, especially when their not-so-cautious downstairs neighbors were involved. Lucifer was still in the cage, and the demons always seemed to find a way to Earth and mess around a bit. Usually the whispers across the realm were of demons being exorcised by normal humans, mostly by incantation. Angels were never really called to handle the lesser fodder of God's creations. Not monsters, not demons. Murmurs of 'Hunters' always seemed to be thrown around and Castiel often found himself wondering why these people found their calling this way. It wasn't his problem either way, technically. None of these creatures had souls, and even if they did, they were already damned for becoming something unholy to their creator or they were tossed unceremoniously into Purgatory. There they were doomed to survive eternity with or without their skin still attached.

Castiel had never found himself paying particular attention to the chatter inside the veil. Until a particular name kept cropping up again and again. Azazel. This name was not unknown to the angel, but the more he heard as time passed, the more interest he seemed to hold. Azazel was turning into a real problem on Earth and in Hell. It seemed like this particular demon was bent on raising Lucifer and bringing the apocalypse. Although it had been foretold in the bible, it was written by some particularly troubled men on some particularly hallucinogenic substances. Castiel always thought it odd that the human race could put so much stock in a written word, especially when they didn't understand the circumstances in which it was written. Still, Azazel was setting the angel waves on fire. He was making pacts with women, trying to claim their first born. He was killing those women when the time came, destroying families and leaving people homeless and confused. Castiel had heard rumors that he was doing this with a purpose. To what end, there was no clear answer.

Then one day, it all changed. Whispers of prophecy were all that seemed to cascade through his mind all at once. The brothers, the chosen vessels had finally been born and found. By none other than Azazel himself. Apparently, the angels of Heaven had been too late to save their mother. Their mother who had made the deal when she was still a hunter. To keep her husband alive. Little did she know how important that man was going to be. He was going to raise the brothers. He was going to train them, make them ready and worthy to face their eventual fate. Winchester. The name that seemed to haunt Castiel now. Winchester.

He had heard stories in his infancy about how one day, there would be a pair of mortal brothers born with the strength and the knowledge to start and finish the eventual apocalypse. Castiel had become increasingly curious over time and sometimes, when no one was paying attention, he would turn his grace to look upon the human world and try to seek out these Winchesters. Two sons and a father, hell bent on revenge, searching for a demon they knew nothing about in a world where deadly things went bump in the night. The father slowly learned how to capture or kill most of them and passed his knowledge onto his sons. The younger of the two would have a hard time retaining the information until he grew older. Castiel would often spend hours of Earth time watching the family when he finally found them on Earth. He would never venture down, his grace was too much for the human senses to bear.

The father, John Winchester, was a tortured man since his wife's unfortunate and unplanned demise. He hunted and searched relentlessly, often abandoning his two sons to keep them out of harms way. Much like his own distant father, Castiel would sometimes think. Castiel knew that John thought of his boys often and would regret time and time again dragging them into this haphazard lifestyle of living in crappy motels, eating food with almost no nutritional value but most of all, not giving them a proper childhood like young boys should have. The man was possessed by his grief, and it was like a bottomless pool of despair, always pulling him deeper. Into himself and away from his boys.

The youngest, Sam Winchester, was an inquisitive and intelligent boy. He had little to no memory of his mother, and so this lifestyle would weigh on him the most. He had no idea what he was searching for, what he was fighting for. He was always happy to be with his family instead of somewhere else, alone. It never stopped his prayers from sounding so hopeless and helpless, wishing for a semblance of normality within his father's vendetta. Sam would pour himself into research materials and books, doing the mental part of the job since he was usually the one left behind on hunts as they all grew. He would never know that his father would always hold him a little tighter and say prayers a little more, thanking God that he had gotten both boys out alive. Sam would grow up on resentment and hope of escape, no matter how strong the bonds of love the small family had for each other.

The eldest, Dean Winchester, understood his father's need for vengeance, but he would never ever understand why it had to be at Sammy's expense. Dean was young when Azazel took his mother, so he could still remember her. He could pull vague memories back of his mother and father, together. When they were happy, when nothing was about revenge and blood and monsters. Dean was bright, though not in the same way as his younger brother. He was also cocky, which was an obvious defense mechanism. Between losing his mother entirely and his father shutting down emotionally, Dean grew up with little understanding of how to handle himself. He watched his father drink himself to sleep while he held Sam close and see the tortured look in his fathers eyes. He never was able to see the echo in his own, no matter how many crappy motel bathroom mirrors he looked in. Dean was protective and needy, all at the same time, and somewhere Castiel felt they would understand each other on that level.

Human emotions were not unheard of in Heaven, though they sort of spread as viruses do down on Earth. Passing from one angel to the next, leaving behind a small imprint of the emotion on their grace. It was easier to feign human feelings and nuances as they were sent down to do God's work. Castiel found himself relating a lot to the small broken family the more he would turn his attention to them. Their fights were loud, but often resolved after one or all of them would storm off in different directions to calm down. Their apologies were quiet, sometimes even unsaid. Mostly it was spread through a warm fatherly hand on a shoulder, or small arms wrapping around a tall waist. Words of true depth and emotion were not uttered often between the three men.

Sam had eventually left for better things (or at least that is what he'd said as he stormed out of the house) and had gone to college. He had found a nice girl, was studying to be something important within human society. It left Dean feeling abandoned. Growing up right next to his brother, being the one to take care of him and suddenly he was gone and all that was left was his father. So they would hunt. They would hardly ever joke. Dean always tried to get John to smile, but it seemed like members of the opposite sex were the only beings in any realm to do that to John Winchester. Castiel watched as Dean slowly fell into a lonely life of hunting, alcohol and a pattern of sexual partners that would make God himself blush. Their lives were hard, but they had never been easy. Castiel couldn't tear himself from the lives of these unsuspecting men. It was as if destiny was slowly bringing them together, and Castiel had no idea how right he was.

His orders had come in. He was to report to debriefing and then begin his mission. What his mission was exactly was the confusing part. The last mission he had been assigned had ended in a way that was the obviously less desirable outcome. He felt like these last few eons were his punishment for doing so badly and Castiel was absolutely aching to do something. The only part of this that was causing anything but excitement and purpose was the fact that he now had to report to Uriel. Castiel didn't yet know the word for it, but Uriel was a total dick.

"Ah, Castiel. It seems our father has given you something immensely special this time." Uriel said, tenting his fingers and cocking one eyebrow toward his angelic brother. Castiel's wings twitched slightly in nervousness and excitement. They had been itching to feel gravity and Earth's atmosphere again.

"What do you mean by special?" Castiel managed to ask in his most confidant voice. Uriel was terrifying if not a little unhinged. Castiel knew how carefully he had to tread to make this be as painless as possible.

"I know you have been watching the Winchesters, yes?" Uriel asked, standing and moving closer to Castiel.

"Yes, for some time now. They seem to be concentric to a coming prophecy. I cannot divert my attentions." Castiel answered efficiently. He hadn't checked on them in a few months in Earth time, but he felt great sorrow blooming out of Sam not too long ago. "Has something happened that I was not aware of?" Castiel asked his commanding officer.

"The eldest, Dean, has found himself in Hell. Doomed to live out eternity there. But you are right, Castiel. He is the Righteous Man." Castiel's eyes went wide at these words.

"How long?" Castiel asked. He knew the prophecy, he knew the lore. This couldn't be allowed to happen. If Dean broke, so would the first seal.

"A little over twenty years, Hell time." Uriel looked incredibly displeased. "We were supposed to mount the offensive sooner, but orders weren't passed down until now. We cannot get a lead on him, he is hidden to us. Our father was hoping that your increased interest had connected you to him somehow, maybe you are the thing to help us find him." Castiel knew in theory that could work. He had watched the young boy grow up, had seen his soul grow and shrink and get brighter and dim down. There had to be some grain of truth in what Uriel was telling him.

"We must retrieve him. If Alastair cracks him, Uriel. He is a strong man, but he is full of so much regret and pain. Alastair will be the one to do it and quickly. We need to start planning an attack." Castiel said firmly. He hadn't even gotten the details of his orders, and yet Castiel was taking over the mission.

"The planning will take some time. You know the obvious cost." Uriel said, looking deep into his eyes. Castiel simply nodded. "So be it. Locate your vessel. Rally your squadron. Tell them to prepare to march on Hell." Uriel confirmed with a sigh. It had been some time since angels had tripped the rift into Hell and made it back out alive. Souls were much easier to damn than to save, and the armies of Hell were furious and would take their revenge quickly for being left down below to be tortured. The last time a garrison had attempted to break the gates of Hell and try to raise a human, the garrison ended up dead and the mission failed.

Castiel knew already that he would move any realm for this one particular human. That someone, if not himself, was going to hold him and raise him from Hell. This was too important, and if Azazel was no longer a threat, that there was always going to be something to cause pain for the Winchesters. Sam had been grieving and their long time family friend Bobby Singer had also prayed as often as he could. Castiel had heard their whispers and their cries to bring him back, to make this horrible nightmare stop. Castiel sent out a signal, calling the most trusted of his garrison to a local meeting spot. There he began to plan his jailbreak from Hell.  
\-----------  
The battle was hot and raging. They had attacked with little or no warning, leaving the demons unprotected. It hadn't lasted long, but in their first strike alone, they had leveled a whole lake of demons at once. Castiel found himself hanging back, begging Dean's soul to call out to him. They had moved him from his previous location, Alastair was not letting him go lightly. Upon attack, Castiel had regrettably found that the first seal had been broken. Alastair had tempted the man too many times, and he had given in. Though Castiel refused to find fault in the mortal. Despite being in Hell, he was only human. Now all he had to do was save Dean, get him back to Earth, and then tell him how to stop it all. The only thing that would factor in would be free will. Dean could very well sit back and let the apocalypse happen but Castiel was going to try to make him see.

He had come to love Dean as he loved his brothers and sisters. Deep and meaningful familial love and Castiel was excited to be a part of his life. A middle age man, Jimmy Novak, had agreed to be his vessel once he broke Dean free of the bonds of Hell. Most of his plan was coming together quite nicely and Castiel couldn't hide his pride at a job being accomplished. He soared above the battle, taking in the smells of blood and death. Watching a large amount of demons souls disappear into nothing. He was happy with his garrison's battle prowess and knew he could leave them and search for their charge. He left instructions with his second in command, Balthazar, and went off in search of Dean.

Castiel had done everything in his power to connect their souls before he came barreling into Hell. First off, it would make the man he was searching for easier to find in the chaos of souls begging to be saved. Castiel had learned that Dean had stopped asking to be saved some time ago. It hurt him in a way that he didn't understand. How could a man with such a precious and life giving soul not want to be saved? Castiel came to understand that because of the horrors he had suffered as a child, he didn't feel worthy. He hardly ever had. The only worth he felt was taking care of Sam, and when he couldn't do that directly, he had just given up.

Suddenly, the angel's vision sharpened dramatically. Someone was calling out. It was a whisper of a prayer, but the angel had tuned himself directly to the man. He was hidden away, Alastair trying to hide him from rescue. Castiel smirked at the demon's lack of planning and understanding of what this actually was. The angel picked up speed while listening to a hopeful voice he had long since heard. Dean actually wanted to be rescued. Catiel knew he would have to tone down his grace to actually get a hold of the man, since his senses were still mostly human. Had he been here for more than 40 years, torturing the way he was, a demon soul would have awoken in him. His senses then would have been more equipped to handle the immensity of seeing an angel without a vessel.

Dean was in the dungeon and Castiel made quick work of the walls, hoping that he hadn't done much damage to his charge. Angels didn't look like humans in their natural form, and while neither did demons, the guise of humanity was just much harder to translate to in heavenly realms. If there was ever anything you could compare an angel to, it would be an extraterrestrial alien. He was tall and his limbs were long. His face was more or less featureless, his eyes large and round. The one thing that humans over the various millenia could never seem to get over was the opalescent nature of his skin. Angels had a glow about them, hiding their natural forms more or less with a light that could burn human eyes right from their skulls. This is what Castiel had to consciously control as he approached the cowering figure of Dean Winchester.

As Dean stood up, they shared a look of complete astonishment, though Dean wouldn't be able to see it properly. This man was beautiful. While his body was certainly aesthetically pleasing, it was his soul that caught the angel's attention. While bruised and a little worse for wear, it shined more brightly than he felt his own grace ever could. Standing here, Castiel could see the unbridled hope of rescue. Dean couldn't understand what he had done to deserve it. Castiel reached out his hand and in his quietest voice, whispered the man's name. A presence whispered into the back of the angel's mind, and Castiel knew it was now or never. Without meaning to, Castiel reached out and grabbed the man's soul, gripping it tightly as he began to make his escape. As he flew skyward, he called to his garrison to retreat, that he had acquired what they had came for. As he ripped out of Hell, Castiel heard the scream of Alastair echoing behind him.  
\------------  
Castiel had taken his time piecing the man back together. Shaping every atom, deleting every scar, giving the man a fresh start. He wanted to give Dean a true second chance. If angels painted like humans did, Castiel would swear that this is what it was like. Starting with nothing and fashioning strong bones, before covering them with fine, lean muscle. He sculpted the man like a fine statue, making him whole again except for a hand print burned onto his shoulder. They were connected there, Castiel felt it. While escaping from Hell, their souls talked and shared a little of the other. Dean would be easier to find now that this had happened, and Castiel wanted a reminder of what he had claimed.

It was a labor of love, rescuing Dean from Hell, piecing him back together brick by brick, hiding the horrors from his memory so he could have a chance to tackle what he needed to now that he was going to be released back on Earth. Castiel found himself looking upon the man with fondness as he sculpted his muscles and his heart back to whole. No mission would ever be important as this, not to Castiel. He and this man were now bonded. Their souls would always end up finding each other, whether their relationship ended well or not. Castiel always had hoped he would find a purpose, a soul mate, someone to share the weight of eons of loneliness. Relationships of emotional or physical significance weren't vetoed in Heaven, they just never happened within the realm itself. Earth had a way of bringing out the sins in angels, and once repentant, the angel would eventually find himself back into Heaven.

Their Father had been absent for a while, not doing much but handing down orders. Trips to Earth weren't as tightly monitored, and angels would skip out now and again to go relieve the tension that usually came with what humans called "Cabin Fever." Castiel, while usually content to stay in Heaven, had indulged himself a few times. It was hard to find a vessel for shorter trips, usually humans didn't like to be worn as much as they liked the idea of feeling special. After being worn by an angel, some humans found themselves depressed. Castiel had often heard that having an angel inside them was the most whole and complete they had ever felt. Humans used as vessels were usually granted a "Get into Heaven" free card for indulging the otherwise stagnant species. Some ended their lives with suicide because no matter what they did, they never felt like that again. Still, they were accepted into Heaven. Mostly, they were left brain dead or just empty. Spending the remainder of their lives in homes, hospitals or just alone. A sad existence living from one meal to the next.

Castiel had finally finished sculpting the man before him. He added small touches back onto his skin, freckles, the anti-possession tattoo, adding the final touches to make this imperfect man perfect in the angel's eyes. He was naked, and although angels had no libido, Castiel found himself admiring the body before him. Hard muscles, soft skin. He knew that if he pressed his hand to the human's chest, it would be solid but would still give enough to feel real. Castiel had never done anything like this before, remaking a man not only in the image that he was used to but one that the angel himself could appreciate. Castiel took a moment to admire him in the silence. The next time he would see Dean, the man would be a living, blood pumping entity. Castiel wanted to remember him like this, laid out before him. No matter his intentions, he didn't know if he was ever going to see him like this again. With a blink, the man was clothed in what he wore when he died. The soul inside him was sleeping, for lack of a better term. Soon he would awaken, scared and alone and Castiel would watch him scramble to piece his life back together. While forty years had passed in Hell, Dean hadn't been gone for more than four months on Earth. Castiel had watched Sam stray, watched Bobby push forward, watched the world pass as if this man was of no significance.

"I will find you again, Dean. You will not recognize me... But I will find you." Castiel made a whispered promise. He placed his hand over the scar he had left on the man's shoulder and gathered the body in his arms, blinking and finding himself on Earth next to a simple, unmarked grave. He knew the ground beneath him was empty, that the moment he left, air would once again breathe into this body he had so painstakingly put back together. That the next time he would see the unconscious man in his arms, he would be distrusting. That was something Castiel would accept. He placed Dean in the grave with the utmost care he could manage, it being shallow enough. Jimmy Novak was not yet ready to accept him as he had planned, but they were close. It would take Dean some time to piece everything back together and in that time, Castiel would finally have a human visage to greet him with.

As he left Earth, Castiel was excited to come back and find this man. His father had linked their fates, and Castiel was genuinely intrigued to see where they would go.  
\-------------  
The road was abandoned, the sun was up high and Dean was trudging down the road, trying to figure out where on Earth he was. He tried to replay what had happened in his mind while he was walking. All he could remember was being in Hell, torturing souls, and then suddenly he was gasping in earthy air in his own coffin. How did he get from Hell back to Earth? Was it Sam? Did he make a deal too? Was it some sort of divine intervention? He knew that it wasn't Alastair, that fucking demon would have kept him locked up in Hell forever if he had his wishes. Dean smiled thinking of the demon screaming for him back down in Hell. He had a mission now that he was back home. Find Sam, or Bobby. Tell them that he was alive, that he was back. He was sure that he would get tested one way or another, and Dean was willing to go through that again and again, just to even prove to himself that he was alive.

His body was sore, and he had noticed once he had stripped himself of his jacket that the numerous scars on his arms had disappeared. His face and neck were perfect as well. Something was definitely different about his own body and Dean knew it instantly. You don't go owning a meat suit and not know how it feels when you've lived in it for close to thirty years. He felt saved, he felt special, he felt like this was his second chance and he wanted to do everything he could to make his life and the lives around him less awful. Dean was tired of the death that surrounded them constantly. As much as hunting filled him with purpose, he was tired of watching his life pass him by and the lives of people around him just collapse into nothing. Knowing your loved one had died from something supernatural was never comforting. They always tried to find some sort of solace, some sort of reason that their husband or their sister had met an untimely end at the claws of something that went bump in the night. He wanted change, he wanted to do this better. He wanted to save the world without losing more than half of the occupants in it.

Dean's thoughts were cut short when he came upon a closed gas station, and he nearly sobbed in relief. He broke in, going straight for water and finishing off a bottle of water in under 5 seconds before grabbing another just to sip on. He quickly gathered supplies and money, before the world around him was shattered. The rumbling felt familiar and the screeching sound that threatened to shatter his ear drums seemed to drum up a memory he couldn't quite hold on to. He shrugged it off, and continued with his plan. Trying Sam on the nearest payphone and getting a disconnected message. Calling Bobby only to have him threaten him in disbelief. His next move was to just go show Bobby he was alive, since he had no way to know where Sam actually was.

While hitching a ride to Bobby's, Dean found himself comforted. It felt like something or someone was always sitting next to him, almost protecting him. He couldn't shake the feeling, and wouldn't for a while. He finally reached Bobby's ramshackle home and knocked on the door, only to get put through the ringer. Iron, Holy water, creating a new scar with the demon knife. He and Bobby were both speechless before Bobby wrapped his arms around him and welcomed him home. That night, Dean slept. As he slept, his dreams were of torture, blood and near the tail end, hope.  
\---------------  
Dean, being the ethical slut that he was, had never had the time to describe his perfect mate. Whether it was a woman or a man, if it had holes to be fucked, Dean would have always been more than happy to oblige. None of the one night stands he had picked up over the numerous years had caught his interest for very long after he was done. The ones that did were often unobtainable or Dean would have talked himself out of the possibility of a relationship due to his oh-so-murderous lifestyle. He could never picture a chick sitting in the front seat of the Impala, ready to go gank the next vampire they heard about. Then again, the kind of chicks Dean liked would be put off after cracking a single painstakingly manicured nail. They were usually pretty vapid, giggly and bottle blonde. Sometimes, it would be a biker chick that would already be gone when he woke up. If Dean had to think about the perfect woman, the things he usually came up with were pie and sex. He wasn't trying to be misogynistic, but it was hard to find female hunters. And even if he did, they were usually too attached to the work to want to have anything continue long term. More power to the ones that managed to pull it off though. Dean never thought about fate or destiny. He never pined for his soul mate, he never really thought of normalcy. How appropriate, he thought as his attention was currently captured by the single most amazing being he was currently looking at.

Around him, light bulbs were exploding and a man, no taller than himself was moving slowly and surprisingly gracefully toward him. His dark hair was far from neat, lying at odd angles across his scalp. It seemed like those cerulean blue eyes were glowing in the oncoming darkness, and Dean was only catching glimpses of this thing from the flashes of lightning from outside. The light bulbs were gone and Dean's jaw was hanging down to the floor. A seemingly unintimidating man was facing him, face set in a hard line, but those blue eyes searching him. Dean felt exposed, felt heat tingle in the hand print on his shoulder, felt his blood start to heat and only god knows what was behind that.

"Dean..." His voice was low, rakish. Dean had never heard his own name said quite like that. It was full of promise, of adoration, of love and something else he couldn't quite identify.

"Who are you?" Dean managed to say back to him. There was something familiar about that stare, the care in that voice. He kept the knife in his hands and was surprised to see lightning flash and a huge expanse of wings fill up the air behind the unassuming man in front of him. He looked slightly hurt at Dean's question.

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition." The man answered, taking another few steps toward him. Dean let this new information sink in for a moment before his lizard brain took over and plunged the knife into the chest of whateverthefuck was in front of him. He watched completely stunned at the creature had no reaction to the enchanted knife and instead reached up to pull it out of his own god damned chest, letting it fall to the floor. He felt a look of solid fear cross his face and Dean had to take a step back.

"What... what are you?" Dean managed to stammer out. Bobby was gloriously silent through this whole ordeal. The thing in front of him smiled and looked Dean up and down like he was checking him out.

"I am an angel of the Lord." He stated simply, still looking Dean over. It was making him pretty uncomfortable.

"Angels don't exist, do they Bobby?" He looked over at his silent partner, who just shrugged his shoulders up confirming that he didn't know either.

"It is good to see you again, Dean." The angel said with a thoughtful smile and reached out to touch Dean. He was frozen to the spot but as soon as that angel's hand touched the scar on his shoulder, every single molecule in his body cried out in warmth. It felt like sinking into a hot bath, but on a level that wasn't just his skin feeling the heat. He felt his whole self, down to his very broken soul hum with happiness and connection. "I'll see you again soon." It was almost whispered and was punctuated by the soft fluttering sound of wings and Dean found himself plunged back into the cold and the darkness. He let his eyes adjust and sought out Bobby.

"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked him, getting another confused look from the man. Dean searched the spot where the angel once stood and kept wondering who he was, and how badly he wanted to see him again.


End file.
